from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed: "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle - it is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have you been these twenty years?"

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.

Washington Irving.

HOW'S MY BOY?

O, sailor of the sea!

Ho How's my boy - my boy?"

"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"

"My boy John

He that went to sea―

What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.

"You come back from sea,

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman,
Yonder down in the town;

There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.

"How's my boy my boy?

And unless you let me know,

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no!

Brass buttons or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton."""Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?"-
"That good ship went down."

"How's my boy - my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I was never aboard her.

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?"

"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her.”

"How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

On wave-crest dances

With pattering feet.

Hark, the rising swell,
With each nearer burst!
Like the toll of bell
Of a convent cursed;
Like the billowy roar
On a storm-lashed shore,-
Now hushed, now once more
Maddening to its worst.

O God! the deadly sound
Of the Djinns' fearful cry!
Quick, 'neath the spiral round
Of the deep staircase fly!
See, see our lamplight fade!
And of the balustrade

Mounts, mounts the circling shade
Up to the ceiling high.

'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm
Whistling in their tempest flight;
Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm,
Like a pine flame crackling bright.
Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd
Through the heavens rushing loud,
Like a livid thunder-cloud,
With its belt of fiery night!

Ha! they are on us, close without!
Shut tight the shelter where we lie!

With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!
The loosened rafter overhead

Trembles and bends like quivering reed;
Shakes the old door with shuddering dread,
As from its rusty hinge 't would fly!

Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek!
The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed
O Heaven! - descends my lowly roof to seek;
Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host.
Totters the house, as though, like dry leaf shorn
From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne,
Up from its deep foundations it were torn
To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost!

O Prophet! if thy hand but now
Save from these foul and hellish things,
A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow,
Laden with pious offerings.

Bid their hot breath its fiery rain.
Stream on my faithful door in vain,
Vainly upon my blackened pane

Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings!

They have passed! - and their wild legion
Cease to thunder at my door;

Fleeting through night's rayless region,

Hither they return no more.

Clanking chains and sounds of woe

Fill the forests as they go;

And the tall oaks cower low,

Bent their flaming flight before.